


Electric Candles

by Sweetloot



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bullying, Candlepunk, M/M, Misunderstandings, Violence, and a weird mash up between knights and soldiers bc idk what I'm doing, basically a medieval kind of setting but they have some technology???, fucking lame title ugh, it's weird sorry, kind of, various unimportant asshole OCs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 00:18:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2752526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetloot/pseuds/Sweetloot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fourteen year old Lavernius Tucker is not where he's supposed to be, so when a chance encounter with David Washington puts him on the path to knighthood, it'll be a long road before he finds out what's at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so, written for the [rvb_jamboree](http://rvb-jamboree.dreamwidth.org/1125.html) on dreamwidth for the first main round, but I didn't get it done in time. *shrugs* Oh well.
> 
> Anyway, the theme was "genre blending" and I used a generator and got the following:
> 
>  **Bildungsroman** : German for a coming-of-age story, I guess?? Though Idk how I did with that.
> 
> And:
> 
>  **Candlepunk** : Which was really difficult to actually find a definition for, but is basically a "late medieval civilization with futuristic technology." All I really did was take some knights, added electricity, but kept the horses. Bam, I'm lame.
> 
> Enjoy??

If Tucker weren't too busy spitting blood onto the cobblestone road in some back ally he really shouldn't have been in, then he would have taken a moment to ask himself how his life had come to this – 

_Punch!_

– but since he didn't have a moment he would just have to settle for clutching his stomach with one arm and blocking his face with the other, his side throbbing and likely to become an impressive bruise in the morning.

Lavernius Tucker, current human punching bag, will be fourteen years old tomorrow. His mother had spent a few hours last night using nimble fingers to style his hair into a beautiful array of dark black braids laying close to his scalp as he talked ( _'prattled'_ , his mom called it) on and on about how excited he was for his birthday party and how that jerk (ass), Church, was not invited (which was untrue, but might as well have been a tradition by now with how many of each other's birthday parties they had gone to in which they “weren't invited”). His mother had hummed, fixing the last braid into place, causing Lavernius to whine, saying it was too tight, and for her to shoo him off to bed, telling him he wouldn't even feel it in the morning.

And she was right, he definitely wasn't feeling it right now, but that might have had more to do with the fact that someone had kicked him in the back of one of his legs, causing his body to fall forward, one knee landing too hard onto the stone road before someone shoved him over into the wall, his body bouncing off the brick before hitting the ground and curling up in the hopes that they would think he died and leave him alone.

The mix of boys and girls towering above him likely didn't believe he had suddenly died of his injures, what with his heavy breathing and attempts to muffle his cries into his elbow, but they seemed to have gotten all of their fun out of him that they wanted.

Tucker didn't hear them walk away. The blood sung too loudly in his ears, telling him _get up get up they're gonna get you get up run_ , but he couldn't listen. He felt woozy and tired and just wanted to _sleep_.

So he did.

It must have been a few hours at least that he lay in that dank alleyway because when he finally managed to crack his eyes open, all he could see was blue.

Tucker blinked, starring at the rippling waves of blue a moment before lifting his head off the cobblestone, head feeling like it was full of rocks and wool at the same time.

He eventually found the will to sit up right, head leaning on the brick wall, eyes darting around his surroundings while he debated whether he wanted to brave being completely vertical yet.

The alley was lit, though not as well lit as the street. Barrels and trash bins littered the walls. Puddles were standing in the crevices between the stones and had the positive effects of reflecting the town's lights causing them to shimmer and dance on the walls. Unfortunately it also had the effect of making everything around him smell like wet garbage.

Tucker gagged, hiding his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow. It was late, _way_ later than he was normally out, and he knew his mom was going to be worried.

Tucker looked towards the mouth of the alleyway, watching as people walked by, not even glancing his way. He wasn't surprised though. Most people didn't seek out trouble, instead keeping their eyes forward, mouths shut, and noses firmly out of other people's business.

Tucker wishes he had remembered the but about keeping his mouth shut.

Tucker rose, stumbling forward, legs having forgotten how to work, before slowly making his way out of the alley. 

His head hurts. His nose feels swollen and gross and there's dried blood on his shirt. Nothing appeared to be broken, but his side hurt. He lifts up the damp, crusty shirt, but can't see anything in the dim light. He hopes the blood was just from his nose.

When he gets to the mouth of the alley, he clutches his fingers against the brick. Tucker was in the Blue Light zone, the origin of the name obvious what with the bright blue lights running along the roads. He could see a few late night carriages go by, some loaded with people looking too well dressed for this part of town, others with a few late night workers, likely trying to get home so they could sleep.

Tucker wanted to be asleep, being awake was painful.

A horse nickers, the late night patrol marches by, their shiny metal suits glowing cobalt in the light, and Tucker breathes quietly, waiting for them to leave.

They don't leave.

Someone shouts, a horse trots up to Tucker, far too large and far too close, hot breath is flung across his face in an angry snort. Tucker stumbles back, feet skidding in a puddle of mud, looking up at a rider clad in metal, a sword dangling casually by their side.

The knight stares down at Tucker, but all Tucker can focus on are the bright yellow lights that form a circle across the knight's temple, going around the visor in dashed lines, before ending in the same circle across their other temple. They say something, but Tucker doesn't catch it.

The rider dismounts, metal boots surprisingly silent against the stone, before approaching Tucker.

Tucker backs up, eyes darting around the solider, looking for an escape. He twitches, thinking about making a run for it.

There's a blade at his neck, he reconsiders the thought.

The clock tower chimes once, its bright, neon screen reads 2:15am.

_'Happy birthday, Lavernius Tucker, you fucked up.'_


	2. Chapter 2

_Fours Years Later_

That night was not one of Tucker's most shining achievements. He had been carted off towards the town jail, but, thankfully, not booked. The knight that had stopped him had wanted to know why he was out after curfew, but had grown suspicious when he saw the blood on him.

Tucker had explained how he had been jumped on his way home (leaving out the part that he had, perhaps, maybe, said a few nasty things he shouldn't have) and that was why he was so bloody.

It had just been Tucker and two knights at the jail, the others having continued with their patrol. The knight that had brought him in had been in the background while some jackass had questioned him way more severely than he thought fair ( _'It's not like I killed someone, lay the fuck off!_ ).

Had Tucker mentioned that he and his mouth had a problem not knowing when to shut up? Because they did.

That knight, apparently, didn't like his tone, as they drew their hand back, looking like they were about to backhand him, when the knight that had brought him in caught their hand, giving the other a look through the visor before letting them go.

Tucker watched the second one go, sticking his tongue out at their retreating back.

A throat cleared, causing Tucker to face the first one again.

The other stared at him.

He put his tongue back in his mouth.

The knight removed their helmet. “Sorry about him, he's not known for his patience,” the man looked back towards where the other knight had left, a dark look passing over his face before fading. He stuck his hand out towards Tucker, “I'm Sir David Washington.”

Tucker took it. “Lavernius Tucker.”

“So, Lavernius, let's see if we can make you look less like someone beat you up and left you in an alley.”

“You really need to work on your bedside manner.”

It had been four years since that night and Tucker had learned a lot:

He learned that, when running from a group of people that didn't like him, he should always know where he are unless he want to hit a dead end. 

He learned that, while buying him some time, being a sarcastic piece of shit towards the people about to beat the crap out of him was _not_ a smart thing to do.

He learned that, while not all knights should be trusted, some are kind of alright.

He learned that his mother doesn't take it well when he shows up at the crack of dawn wearing clothes too big for him with his face a swollen mess and a strange knight escorting him home.

And that, after his mother stops being grateful that he's alive, she gets really, really mad and decides that if he wants to fight like a knight, then he'll be a knight, with all the training and discipline that comes with it.

“Come on, squire, I'm not even breaking a sweat here.”

Tucker wheezed, leaning to his side, the tip of his sword hitting the dirt. “I hate you.”

Wash snorted, amused, “Yeah, well prove it.”

Tucker's shoulder made a cry of pain. They had been practicing for hours, he doesn't think he could pick up his sword even if his life depended on it.

They were out of armor (not like Tucker had any yet, anyway). Wash wore loose fitting gray pants, his feet bare and covered in dirt from the training field. His shirt was, in fact, damp with sweat, but Wash was a little shit and enjoyed making fun of the fact that it always looked more like Tucker had gone swimming instead of going to sword practice.

Tucker was distracted, trying to find the will to drag himself to the showers, so he barely had time to block the hit going towards his side. 

Tucker's arm swung towards the other, blocking the hit. Tucker grunted, his shoulder protesting the movement. “Hey! Are you _trying_ to kill me!”

“They're practice swords, _Tucker_.”

“They still hurt, _Washington!_ ”

Wash was silent, looking at him with a scrutinizing eye. “You're hurt.”

“No shit I'm hurt! Do you know how long we've been practicing? My hand is now permanently attached to my sword! I'm going to _need_ this hand tonight!”

Wash shook his head, ignoring the obvious innuendo, “I meant your shoulder.”

Tucker raised an eyebrow, watching as Wash re-sheathed his sword, approaching him with his arms crossed, his mouth set in a line.

“You didn't seem to care so much when I was complaining an hour ago.”

“You were complaining about sore nipples.”

“It's a legitimate concern!”

Wash walked up behind him, looking at his back. “You're a knight in training, there will be discomforts and superficial wounds, you know that, but this –” Here he poked at Tucker's shoulder, Tucker hissed. “– is not a superficial wound.”

Tucker frowned, feeling like a chastised kid.

“Come on,” Wash said, leading Tucker towards medical, “and next time, say something when something is _actually_ wrong, not just when you feel like complaining.”

Tucker would have shrugged, if not for obvious reasons, “What can I say, I love using my mouth.”

“Shut up, Tucker.”


	3. Chapter 3

_Five years later._

“Get down!”

Tucker ducked, rolling his body away from the _thing_ that was tearing up the Red Light zone. His armor was a plain gray, the lights that ran a track up his arms, down his legs, and across his back remaining stubbornly silent.

A swipe of a claw cut off his thoughts.

Tucker brought up his sword, the metal _sung_ as it was hit. Tucker's feet skid backwards. He was so _boned._

A loud whistle flew threw the air, followed by a shout, and a large rock hitting the back of the bear-like creature's head.

The thing growled, turning towards the older knight, vibrant red lights shining in patches across his chest. “Hey, you over grown throw rug! I got someone that what's to meet ya!” He brandished his sword, swinging it in a wild arc. Tucker would have questioned the old man's sanity if he didn't already think he was crazy. 

The beast charged, Sarge dodged, his sword clipping the thing's shoulder. It roared, a bone-clattering sound. “Grif, sacrifice your flesh to save your superior!”

“Fuck that!”

“Say that again!”

“I mean...fuck that, sir!”

“That's better!”

Tucker caught his breath, watching from a safe distance as the local Red Light patrol – his sometimes friends – kept the beast away from the city. They didn't seem to get along very well, but they were all still breathing so Tucker guessed it worked for them. 

Wash crouched down beside where Tucker was hiding, armor smudged with dirt and blood that Tucker hoped wasn't his own. He was silent, looking out towards the fight, calculating. Tucker could practically see the cogs turning in his head. 

The yellow lights of Wash's helmet hummed with power. Tucker found his eyes trailing away from the creature, it was being distracted well enough for now. They said (whoever “they” were), that our bodies radiated color, but could not be seen by anyone but our soulmates, and only when they were “ready” (whatever that meant). That is, until the day that we searched out a way to strengthen our armor, to create better soldiers, better knights. It was the joining of metals to _luxen_ , crystals that, when heated, melted and joined with metal, before cooling in unpredictable places and shapes in the armor.

Wash's had settled almost exclusively in his helmet, around his temples and around his visor in dashed lines. The only variant were the lines that dashed down the pads of his fingers to the palms of his hands where he clutched the hilt of his sword.

Sarge had his in large patches across his chest. Grif's were orange, coming down in large rectangles down his back and down his thighs. Simmons, a man who was up in a tree, shooting at the creature from a distance with a bow, had his maroon lights as circles going down where the bridge of his nose would be on his helmet, bisecting his face and going down his neck, swirling down the left side of his chest.

No one knew why luxen behaved this way, why, when blacksmiths tried to lay it in certain ways, it would come out different every time. That is, until two soulmates had become knights together.

It had been the day of their knighting, the day when they would choose their armor and sword. They had seen the other knights in their armor, had seen the way the lights etched patterns in the metal, but the lines were unrecognizable to them. The women had gotten dressed, snapped the last pieces of each others armor together, and looked at each other.

And that's when they saw it.

Their armor, the ones that they had picked out from hundreds of other pieces, the ones that felt like they had been calling to them, showed the world the beautiful image they saw on each other. The first one had seen triangles on her lover, the same forest green that sprung the image of self-reliance, harmony, and balance in the other woman's mind whenever she saw it. 

The second woman saw ovals of shining silver, the same calming, safe feeling she had always felt when she saw her love.

But their colors wouldn't be revealed to everyone else unless they proved themselves “worthy,” what ever that meant.

And they did. There were legends told about these women, older than anyone could remember. They became leaders, revolutionaries, and then tragic, fallen heroes. Statues were built for them in their honor and placed in the town square, each one shining their hearts' colors.

But Tucker wasn't like these women. No one could see the lights on Tucker's armor, and Tucker couldn't see the lights on anyone's skin. He wasn't “ready” yet, wasn't “worthy” yet, but that was fine. Really, he was totally cool with it. 

He didn't need destiny to tell him he kicked ass, didn't need fate to tell him who or how to love...

_Tucker's eyes lingered on yellow..._

No, really, he was fine.

Tucker focused back on the fight. Sarge was lunging his blade at the beast, taking stabs at it every time Grif ran by, reluctantly drawing its focus. Simmons shot arrow after arrow, but hardly any stuck, bone-like protrusions on its body like armor plating. One hit the beast above the eye, cracking the bone there before bouncing off. The creature snarled, turning its attention to the archer.

“Oh shit.”

Simmons dove from the tree, landing and doing a staggering roll under a swiping claw, bits of bark and wood exploding behind him.

“Shit, Simmons!” 

“Get moving, boy!”

Tucker's eyes widened, watching as Simmons managed to propel himself out of range. Wash made a gesture, a similar one that they had used before in training, and launched over the rock and foliage they had been behind. 

Tucker made a strangled sort of noise, _'the fuck?'_ He could have at least _whispered_ his plan! What was Wash _doing?_

Tucker made a gesture of his own, displaying it to Wash's retreating back as he crept around, watching as Wash drew the creature's attention away from the retreating Reds – 

_'That self sacrificing bastard!'_

– and saw the enraged bear catch Wash across the chest, flinging him into the trunk of the tree.

_“David!”_

It was Tucker's voice, but he didn't recognize it. It was like he wasn't aware of anything other that the beast stalking towards his struggling friend, Wash clutching his side with one hand and lifting his sword in a vain attempt to protect himself with the other.

The Reds seemed like they were getting closer in slow-motion, but they were too far away to help in time. 

But Tucker wasn't.

Tucker sprung forward, sword coming down and plunging deep into a cut on the beast's hide where skin met bone platting. He held on, forcing the blade further when it wanted to stop. The beast screamed, loud and bloodcurdling, and made to sink its blade-like claws into Tucker's back.

All sound stopped with a wet, sickening _crunch_.

Tucker had his eyes shut, sure the pain just couldn't reach him since he was already dead, but as the body below him fell forward, his hands releasing their death grip on the hilt of his sword, he wasn't so sure he was the one that had died.

Tucker opened his eyes, looking at his sword in the beast's shoulder, and looking at the other one lodged in its skull.

Wash was breathing heavily, body slumped against a tree. His sword was absent from his side, the blade sheathed into the soft flesh below the beast's chin, going up and cracking against the creature's skull.

Wash turned to Tucker, Tucker wondering if his eyes were as wide behind his helmet as his right now, and was startled when Wash began to laugh.

Tucker was confused, watching as Wash clutched his side in something other than pain. “What the _fuck_ is so funny! You almost _died_.”

At that, Wash seemed to sober a little, only a few giggles escaping him when he said, “You're blue.”

Tucker was bewildered. “Did you hit your head or something?”

Wash shook his head, “No, well, maybe, but that's beside the point.”

Tucker turned towards the Reds, watching as they walked up beside them, about to ask if they were seeing Wash finally snap too, when Grif flung his arm around Tucker's shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.

“Look who finally hit puberty,” Grif snickered, pull Tucker into a headlock.

Tucker pushed Grif off him, “Get the fuck off me, have you all gone crazy?”

Sarge walked over to Wash, checking his wounds, while talking to Tucker, “I always knew you were a dirty blue, now every time I look at ya I'll have to think about stabbing Grif to rid the color from my mind.”

“Gee, thanks, Sarge."

“Shut it, dirtbag. Simmons, grab a med kit!”

As Simmons rushed off, Tucker looked down at his armor, only now noticing the bright aqua that radiated from him.

He was still looking down at himself when Simmons came back, bag in hand.

“Here, sir!”

Tucker turned back, watching as Wash had his chest piece removed. There was a long, shallow-enough-to-not-be-deadly gash running down his side, right where separate plates of armor were snapped together, a lucky shot. Sarge had Wash remove his helmet, wanting to check if Wash really _did_ hit his head too hard, and Tucker sucked in a breath, nearly choking on it at what he saw.

_Yellow._


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a week since then. Wash was on leave while his wound healed, armor-less, yet still coming to watch Tucker train even if he wasn't allowed to join in.

And Tucker was spending _way_ more time in his armor than normal.

_Yellow._ Tucker had seen yellow, the same yellow pattern he had seen on Wash for years, only this time without sheets of metal in the way. 

And Tucker was quietly _freaking the fuck out._

_Soulmates._

Shit, what did that even _mean?_

His mom had told him once that it meant that the other person would be his compliment, someone that, while not “completing” him, brought his best to light. This person could be like a sibling to them, or a lover. Either way, there would be no way to tell until he actually _met_ that person as to which it would be.

And Tucker had met him, nearly ten years ago he had met him, and he was confused.

Of _course_ he had _thought_ about it! He had met Wash as a teenager, a lust filled teenager with an overactive imagination, and had befriended him.

But that was it, all they ever had was friendship, and Tucker, though always happy to get laid, did not want that to be the extent of his relationship with Wash, didn't want to ruin what they had, so he had stayed back, packing away his feelings and replacing them with cheesy pickup lines and bad innuendo that would make Wash shove him and tell him he was gross.

But Wash was, had always _been_ , his soulmate, and had never expressed anything other than camaraderie and friendship towards him.

Tucker had heard rumors about uncompatable soulmates, people that fit together, but didn't fit in the right ways, whose soulbonds just didn't click. One would want a lover, the other wouldn't feel the same, and they would try to make it work, but ended up hurting each other before they left. The distance would hurt, but being together would have been worse.

Tucker didn't want that.

Of course he _knew_ he couldn't hide forever, couldn't stay in his armor for all eternity, but he needed to. Just until he knew what to do.

-  
Three days had passed and Tucker still had no idea what to do.

Wash was getting better and Tucker was running out of time.

Tucker was in his regular clothes, getting ready to put on his armor so he could meet up with Wash. He was thinking about about how to tell Wash about their bond, about how this was all going to blow up in his face and how he was going to loose his friend just because Tucker's stupid soulbond wanted something he _couldn't have_ , when the curtain opened behind him, the flutter almost being lost in the sound of Tucker's shirt hitting the floor.

Wash had opened his mouth to speak, but snapped it shut at the sight of Tucker's back, aqua lights on dark brown skin.

Wash turned away without a word.

_'Fuck.'_


	5. Chapter 5

Tucker didn't see Wash for the rest of the day, no one did but a lone guard, saying he had taken his horse and gone east.

And, if Tucker spent most of the day patrolling the east side of town today? Well, it was a very bad side of town, after all.

By the time the multicolored lights of the city began replacing the waning rays of the sun, Tucker was exhausted, emotionally and physically. He had ridden all day without a break, only able to leave the edge of the city for a few minutes before he had to check back in with the main patrol, and with the few glimpses of the forest he had, he hadn't seen a trace of Wash.

_Shit_ , Wash must hate him now.

Tucker returned his horse to the stable, removing his armor and leaving it in the armory, before catching a coach towards the Blue Light zone. He would have to continue his search for Wash tomorrow, if Wash wasn't so angry that he asked for a transfer to the Red Light zone's patrol, that is.

Tucker opened his front door and reached for the light switch, but froze.

_Yellow._

“Tucker, we need to talk.”

It was Wash, sitting in the armchair facing the door. Yellow light radiated from him, drawing Tucker's eyes. His heart sped up.

“Shut the door, Tucker.”

Tucker did, relieved to see that Wash wasn't going to avoid him forever, but nervous as to what was going to happen next. 

Wash reached out beside him, the lines on his hands making the movement easy to follow, and turned on the lap beside him.

“Listen, Wash, I –”

“Just, just shut up for a minute, okay?”

Normally, Tucker wouldn't, but the tired tone of Wash's voice made him pause. 

Wash pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes looking distant, before dropping his head in his hands.

“I'm sorry.”

What.

“What?”

“I'm sorry I never told you, but you were so _young_ and –”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold it! Time out! What the _fuck_ are you sorry about?”

“...for not telling you I was your soulmate?”

_“You knew!”_

“Tucker, let me explain –”

But Tucker didn't. He was angry and confused and elated and sad all at once, his head was a roar of emotions, so he dropped down heavily onto the couch and was silent, unsure what would come out of his mouth if he allowed himself to speak.

Everything was quiet, Wash unnerved by Tucker's stillness, unused to it from the normally animated man.

“Who let you in?”

The question was so out of left-field that it took Wash a minute to comprehend it.

“Uh, your mom, on her way out to visit a friend...”

“Oh.”

The clock tower chimed the half hour before Tucker spoke again, sitting up straighter with an obviously fake nonchalant look upon his face, “Alright, I get it. You don't feel the same way then, fine. We'll just pretend this didn't fucking happen and everything we'll be just like it was.” The last bit was rushed as Tucker stood up, making to leave the living room, to put some distance between them. He couldn't deal with any pitying looks right now.

But Wash grabbed his hand, stopping him. 

Tucker pulled his hand from his grip, gritted his teeth, and turned to face him. “What.”

“How do I feel?”

Tucker blinked, confused, having had expected an _'It's not you, it's me'_ cliched piece of shit instead of what actually came out of it.

“What?”

“How do I feel? You said I don't feel the same way, so how do I feel?”

“...not how I feel?”

“Tucker.”

Tucker growled. “Fine! You treat me like a friend, like a brother. _That's_ your soulbond to me, but it's not _mine_.”

It was silent.

“It seems there's some miscommunication going on here. Tucker, what did you see when your first saw me?”

Tucker couldn't help it, he smirked. “A jackass.”

_“Tucker.”_

“ _Fine_. I saw a knight on a horse.”

“No, no, after that. When I wasn't wearing armor.”

“Uh, a dude?”

“Nothing else?”

“A really hot dude?”

Wash cleared his throat, head ducking down as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Um, not exactly what I meant. Do you know what I saw, once we got you cleaned up?”

Tucker waggled his eyebrows. “A stud?”

“Ew, Tucker, you were a kid.”

“Doesn't mean it wasn't true,” Tucker mumbled.

Wash sighed, “I saw blue. At first, I didn't think much of it, we were in the Blue Light zone, after all, but when we got to the jail, the lights were pale, but you were still _blue_. They looked just like they do now, only not as strong, and I was so _scared_. You were just a _kid_ , and I was an adult and I had _found you_ , but couldn't _be with you_. You didn't see my lights because you weren't ready to, but for some reason I could see yours...”

“...why didn't you tell me?”

“I couldn't –”

“Bullshit.”

Wash looked at Tucker, a look of hurt in the other man's eyes.

“It's been _ten years_ , Wash, _ten_. I'm not a fucking kid anymore, so why didn't you tell me?”

Wash knew Tucker was right, but needed Tucker to understand why he did it. “You can see my lights now, right?”

“What does that have to do –”

“Right?”

Tucker sighed. “Yeah.”

“And you tried to hide it from me, why?”

“...you noticed that?”

“Tucker, it's a miracle when you wear pants. You think I wouldn't notice you suddenly wearing your armor everywhere?”

Tucker scuffed his boot against the floor. _Damn_ , okay, so his planned had been a little more flawed than he had thought. Sue him.

“Tucker, why'd you hide it?”

“...thought you didn't feel the same.”

“And?”

“...and I didn't want to fuck up what we already had.”

“So you were scared?”

“I was not –”

“You were scared, just like I was ten years ago. I was afraid I'd mess things up, pressure you, make you want me in a way that you couldn't even _understand_ yet, so I didn't tell you, even when you were old enough to know. And you were afraid you wanted me in a way I didn't want you, right?”

Silence.

“...we're really fucking stupid.”

“Yeah we are.”

The clock tower chimed the next hour.

“What do we do now?”

Wash's voice was small, quiet. Tucker realized that Wash had no more of an idea what they should do than Tucker did and, strangely enough, that thought comforted him a little. At least he wasn't alone in this.

That still didn't tell him what they should do, so Tucker decided he just do what he's always done.

Reaching out to where Wash was still seated, he offered his hand to the other man, pulling him up to his feet when he grabbed it. He looked into Wash's eyes, watched as his light reflected in his eyes, and was almost too mesmerized to speak, but when he did, it was with a smirk. “We wing it.”

“Wing it?”

Tucker smiled, “Yeah, it's been working pretty well for me so far.”

Wash didn't look very impressed. “Was that you 'winging it' the day we first met?”

Tucker shrugged, unapologetic, “Okay, not one of my better moments, but you've got to admit, it worked out pretty well in the end.”

Wash hummed in thought. “We'll see.”

“Don't be an ass, dude.”

Wash just smirked, walking past Tucker and letting the glow from the pads of his fingers brush against the other man's thigh. Tucker could have sworn he felt the warmth through the fabric.

Wash went towards the door, Tucker trailing behind. They stood silent, Wash just outside the door, the blue glow of the streetlights tumbling into the living room. 

It was actually kind of a romantic moment. Tucker just had to ruin it. “ _So_ , is this the part where we make out on the stoop?”

Wash pushed Tucker's head back into the living room when he leaned out with puckered lips. “Goodnight, Tucker.”

“ _Aw_ , come on!”

“See you tomorrow, Tucker. Doc says I'm going to need some help during training, what with having been laid up for a while.”

Tucker raised an eyebrow. “Dude, you're still in way better shape than I am. What could you possibly need my help with?”

Wash shrugged, looking over his shoulder from where he was making his way to the sidewalk. “Dunno, stretches maybe.”

“Stretch –” Wash gave Tucker a sly grin as turned onto the street. “– _oh_.”

And helping with stretches Tucker did, and if each of their hands lingered on shirtless skin for longer than was strictly necessary, mesmerized by what only they could see, then no one needed to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is done. Please tell me what you think. I'm not sure I like it very much, but I finished it anyway.
> 
> Comments area always appreciated and, as always, thank you for reading!


End file.
